Chapter Forty-Four

"I don't want to fight you," Syaoran said, glancing between each member of the trio. He remembered the red-haired man best—he'd done most of the talking during their first encounter, before he'd tried to knock Syaoran out with a wrench. His hands were empty this time, but the cocky smile and arrogant posture were the same.

"Funny," the woman remarked, tilting her head back. "You said that last time we met, too, and look how that turned out."

Syaoran said nothing, waiting for one of them to strike.

"Y'know," the redhead said, smirking. "We didn't appreciate being shown up by a kid. Whaddya say? Ready for a rematch?"

"I don't want to fight you."

The three advanced several steps, moving in tandem. Though the redhead—Jet, Syaoran remembered suddenly, his name was Jet—was unarmed, the broad-shouldered man behind him carried a metal pipe, possibly the same one he'd had during the first attack. "Oh, but we want to fight you," Jet said, pushing his spectacles up his nose so they rested in front of his eyes.

Syaoran retreated another step, wondering if Fai would hear him if he started banging on the door behind him. It seemed hideously ironic that he'd fled from Fai out of petty frustration and ended up running into these monsters.

"What will you do, Jet?" the woman asked. "Are you going to kill him, or do we get to play with him first?"

He chuckled. "Let's see how long he lives."

I have to get out of here, Syaoran thought, just as Jet's fist shot forward. Syaoran ducked, spinning around and throwing a kick toward his abdomen. The thin man twirled, his back pressing against the wall as he evaded the attack. Syaoran darted forward, knocking over a trash can as he charged the stocky man, Roret. He was cornered, true, but if he could just manage to get past the two men, he could make his way back to the front of the bookstore and get Fai.

Spindly fingers wrapped around his upper arm, yanking him back. He reached forward, fingernails scraping over the gritty brick wall in a futile attempt to anchor himself to something solid. He succeeded only in bending back his nails.

The rubber sole of Jet's shoe slammed into the back of his knee. Agony shattered through the joint, and Syaoran pitched forward, stunned. His other knee hit the ground, the impact shredding the cloth of his pants and scraping his kneecap. Blood smeared against the concrete.

"Too slow," the woman said, hanging back. A mad grin split her face. "Come on, little boy. Your chess team is already close to top-tier status. Don't tell me that was just dumb luck."

This is about the chess tournament? Seriously? He lurched forward, trying to free himself from Jet's grip. In the chess games, it was an illegal hold. Here, it was shockingly effective. This isn't a chess match, he reminded himself fiercely. These people don't care about rules. All they want is to hurt people. His struggles intensified as the bald man with the pipe lumbered over to him.

"Not too hard, Roret," the woman said. "I want to play with this one."

"You got it." He gripped the pipe with both hands, getting ready to strike. Syaoran lurched to the side, trying to get out of range. When Roret swung, the pipe grazed his temple. Pain flared above his eye, and he dimly remembered his first encounter with these rogues, when Jet had given him a black eye.

At least I'm not unconscious, he thought, still struggling vainly against Jet's grip. And then the pipe came down a second time, and even that tiny reassurance evaporated as the haze of blackness overtook his mind.

Something's not right, Fai thought, head whipping around as he surveyed the empty rows between bookshelves. He'd passed this way three times already, searching for Syaoran, yet he hadn't caught sight of the boy, nor could he hear the familiar rhythm of his steps.

For all the times Kurogane had called him an idiot, Fai was smart enough to know something had gone wrong.

He retraced his steps. Syaoran had been out of his sight for a minute at most. It would've that long just to get back to the front of the store, and Fai could see the painted glass doors from where he stood. He would've noticed if Syaoran had tried to leave without him.

Yet with each pass, Fai grew more certain his charge had slipped away unnoticed. Bookstores were Syaoran's natural habitat, after all—he'd know how to navigate them better than Fai could. Is it my fault? Fai wondered, moving through the labyrinth of science-fiction novels. Did I do something to upset him?

This part of the store was barren, lifeless except for a withered fern in an orange pot. Fai kept walking, tapping into his vampire senses as he searched for a nearby heartbeat, or the whisper of someone flipping a page. Any indication that Syaoran was somewhere nearby. But he found nothing.

"Excuse me, sir," someone said as he passed once again through the empty romance section. He turned to see a young girl with cocoa-colored hair and glasses. "Are you looking for a certain book?"

"No." He paused, then started speaking rapidly. "I'm looking for a boy. My cousin. He's got short brown hair, brown eyes. He's about this tall." He held his out hand, approximating Syaoran's height. "I lost him about two minutes ago. Have you seen him?"

Surprise flickered across the girl's face, but she pointed toward a slate gray door near the romance section. "He went out that door. He wasn't carrying any books, so I didn't think to stop him."

He left? He actually left? Fai stared at the girl, then whipped around, dropping the picture book he'd found as he pushed through the steel door and came out into a narrow passage framed by brick walls. Papers skittered across the concrete like fleeing rodents, and several rats darted into the shadows at his arrival. His throat tightened in dismay as he realized that, if Syaoran had ever gone this way at all, he'd already disappeared.

Kurogane is going to kill me.

A strangled laugh escaped his throat at the thought, part humor, and part gut-wrenching terror. Yes. He'll remind you how this is all your fault and that you were supposed to be watching Syaoran, and then he'll kill you. He took a shaky breath, leaning against the brick wall in an effort to control the panic churning inside him. When that proved pointless, he staggered further into the alley, cognizant only of the fact that if he didn't find Syaoran, there would be hell to pay.

And then he smelled it. A scent like copper, but stronger, laced with salt and other smells. He sniffed, feeling his fingernails grow longer as the familiar scent registered with him. When he tracked it to its source, something fractured inside him.

A glistening patch of blood marred the bricks of the bookstore's exterior wall. He gasped, and the scent of it filled his nose. Yes, definitely blood. And it was fresh.

Syaoran noticed the throbbing in his head first, a white-hot point of pain just above his left temple. The rest of his body felt strangely adrift, as if it were made of mist instead of flesh and blood, and it was only as he started registering other discomforts that he started to come back to himself. The floor beneath him was smooth but chilly, leaching the heat from his legs, and his shirt had been removed, leaving his skin vulnerable to the drafty air. Of greater concern, his arms had been pinned behind his back by six cold rings of metal.

Am I dreaming? he wondered. Or dead? Maybe I'm dead. He frowned. He'd learned a great deal about the various iterations of the afterlife through the Other's eyes. Fujitaka had made a point to teach his adoptive son about the belief systems of the cultures they'd studied, and though the man hadn't ascribed to any single religion, he'd believed in some form of afterlife. Is that where I am now? Syaoran dead seemed less comfortable than he'd expected.

He tried to open his eyes. One eyelid fluttered with minimal effort, but the other stayed shut, too swollen to move. The throbbing above his eye intensified. Why is it always the eyes that get injured? Is it just bad luck, or are they just the most vulnerable? He groaned, his good eye blinking (winking?) as he tried to take in his surroundings. Everything around him looked gray, and for a moment, he thought his vision had gone strange. Then he saw a smear of red on the cement floor and leaned forward to examine it. The restraints around his arms stopped him before he could move more than three inches, chains jingling.

Everything jumped into clarity then. He remembered abandoning Fai at the library, running into that group of thugs he'd encountered before, being pinned . . . and then darkness. They must have taken me somewhere, he thought, examining his surroundings. He seemed to be in some kind of basement, judging by the cement floor and unfinished walls. A metal table stood several feet away, and on top of it, he could see a number of sharp implements. Next to that, a wood-burning stove had been set into the wall, the fire inside long dead, and beyond that, a set of wooden stairs.

His head snapped up as he heard a door open above. The stairs creaked as someone came down them. As his visitor reached the bottom step, he identified her as the blonde who had goaded Jet and Roret into attacking him. "Oh good, you're awake," she said, her pale eyes reflecting the bare fluorescent lightbulb dangling from the basement ceiling.

Syaoran shivered. "Where am I?"

"My basement. Or was that not obvious?" She walked over to him, her high heels clicking against the cement. Syaoran instinctively struggled against his bonds, but though the chains linking each manacle to the wall behind him jingled, the restraints held.

The woman snorted and pressed her index finger to his forehead. "Don't bother. I special-ordered those restraints when I got into this business. They've held much stronger men than you."

Then I'm not the first person they've brought down here. He leaned back, shifting his arms. They were starting to tingle slightly, the awkward position restricting proper blood flow. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious, if his arms were already going numb. "Why did you bring me here?"

The woman's lips quirked at one corner in an impish smile, as if this was all just a prank. A knot of dread formed in his stomach. "Why? Haven't you guessed?" She leaned close, whispering in his ear. "Because I like to play. And when my toys break, I need new ones."

He tensed up, trying to put some distance between them, but she just leaned in closer, invading his personal space. Her fingertip brushed the line of his jaw, raising bumps over his skin.

"I'm Cassie," she said. "Welcome to the playroom."